


Clouded

by mAd_parnes



Series: Go for Broke [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Play, CWC – Consent?WhatConsent?, Demon Blood Addiction, Demon Dean Winchester, Demonic Uncanny-Valley-ness, Fanon-Typical Screwiness, Frot, Guest appearance of Crowley, Hugging, Humor, M/M, Non-Consensual Hugging, Not sure I covered everything, POV Sam Winchester, Rape/Non-con Elements, Relapse, Smokeballing, Warning: This is not crack and therefore not fun, Would be easier if there was a tag that said-, and because it is a tag-, onesided wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 04:21:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12051213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mAd_parnes/pseuds/mAd_parnes
Summary: A fic we wrote some time ago and post now to 'celebrate' we finally quit watching Supernatural for good - this last season, dude...anyhow,Demon-Dean - great way to celebrate, because when that became canon, we were a little underwhelmed too. So here goes the summery:This story is a standalone and only mirrors some themes of Bared. To know whats it about, see tags. It immediately follows season 9 ' end. Just so much is said, Dean doesn't waste any time...





	Clouded

**Author's Note:**

> I coined a term:  
> Smokeballing  
> Because its too good not to be a thing. It's been done, but me think no one else named it yet.  
> I will never forgive them that they didn't let Abbadon do that to Dean.  
> Smokeballing, beautiful term....Franny hates it, hehehe.  
> xxxJo  
> PS we only stopped watching SPN, not writing it
> 
> A very belated thank you to Sarah, who beta-read this story  
> Francis

Clouded

by

Joseph Qayin & Francis Pollux

 

 

 

After the king of hell kept him waiting, Crowley walked up on Sam, like he had just been to bathroom. Like he lived here.

Pain, fresh, welled up anger and Sam swallowed the first thing he wanted to spit at the demon and requested, “Crowley, you gotta-”

“It's done.”

Gestured behind Sam.

And there Dean stood, rubbing dried blood from his face.

The instant resurrection swayed Sam, when he had prepared for months, weeks, a year...like last time, for the struggle to keep going, keep breathing, alone. But all that wouldn't happen because he had Dean given back to him, just like that.

It wasn't like Crowley to give freebies. “What's the catch?” Sam asked.

Crowley shrugged, “I don't see one if you don't see one.”

What was that supposed to mean?

“I believe you boys need some alone time,” Crowley mused, “To hug in private or whatever repressed thing you do to show you feelings.” With that he was gone.

Dean walked closer, wordlessly shaking his head about Crowley's antics and he reached out for Sam's shoulder now, to turn him around, take a good look at him, as if he was the one who had lain dead on his bed not ten minutes ago. Sam wanted to pat Dean down. Wanted to make sure the hole in his body was gone, but the relief was still bottled up inside of him, like it had been too sudden. Too good to be true.

“Ah, screw him,” Dean said and hugged Sam hard. In the tight hold, relief broke loose and hit Sam like a sledgehammer, stopping his heart.

It was true. Real and solid. Not like the last time, when alcohol and grief pushed him to a point where the hours before dawn evoked Dean's face, his voice and empty air started talking back at Sam, till he drove and kept driving to pretend they both had died, they both were in heaven.

Sam breathed in the dirty smell of blood and dying and sweating, to make sure nothing was missing, but if anything Dean smelled of too much, too real, too deep in Sam's senses, like his mind tried to take in more than possible and intensified what he knew of his brother.

Unsure, he took another whiff, but his mind wasn't making it up. Dean's blood did not smell metallic sharp. But fresh, electric, more like taste than smell. And first fear took over, _Dean was still bleeding_ , his mind reasoned.

He pushed his brother off and stared down at the caked over wound in his chest.

“Sammy, it's okay.” Dean patted his cheek, ducked his head down to catch Sam's eye and smiled reassuring. “I am back.”

And then he chuckled and bit his lip. Caught red-handed.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Dean's smirk told otherwise. “Bad pun.”

“What bad pun?”

“Back in Black.”

Sam had the feeling he was missing something fundamental, because no matter how stupid Dean's humor, he always got the joke.

“I am afraid it's useless to tell you not to freak out,” Dean said and closed his eyes, sighing like he felt particularly melodramatic and snapped his eye-lids open.

Dean's hands on his shoulders tightened down on the flinch Sam couldn't suppress.

 _Demon_ was the first thing his eyes told him, before bone deep certainty took over. No. It was Dean. Sam would know. It was his brother. He would know.

“How?”

Dean shrugged, his hands dropped from Sam's shoulders to his chest. Sam didn't mind, after everything that had happened he would have held Dean much closer if he had thought he was allowed.

“Just what happened to Cain,” was Dean's only explanation.

Crowley. “Crowley knew.”

“Yeah,” Dean shrugged, “But we should have known too, right?”

How could Dean be so calm about this?

“Either you die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become a villain.”

What the-

“Why so serious, Sammy?”

“This is not something to joke about!”

His reproval prompted Dean to keel over laughing, one hand still on Sam like he really needed the support to remain standing. When Dean came back up to face level with him he was smiling so brilliantly and open and happy it made Sam ache. Dean's eyes were clear, sparkling with pure joy and not even that Sam wasn't laughing along put a damp on his light.

“Oh come on, I had to,” Dean squeezed his shoulder. “It's a great movie. All due respect for Jack, but Heath Ledger put the grit into the crazy.”

Sam really wanted to give into the pull of Dean's happiness, be caught in it's magnetism, but all he could think about was that Dean hadn't laughed like that for years. Many years. Not since Dad died.

This wasn't Dean.

Something had been broken ever since then. Something that couldn't be mended. Some wounds only stopped bleeding when you burnt them out.

Dean's bleeding heart was one of them.

This wasn't Dean.

He told himself, but he didn't believe it.

“Christo.”

Dean flinched to black eyes and and shivered, saying, “Dude, don't do that,” he shuddered again for good measure. “Gives me a cringe attack. Like something 's wrong. Like waking up naked in the middle of a playground, not that that ever happened to me – more than once.”

“Something _is_ wrong, Dean. You're a demon!”

His brother shrugged again and the gesture was so Dean, truly, madly, deeply carved into Sam where he felt safe and embarrassed by proxy for his devil-may-care-stupid brother, it wrung an anguished sob out of him.

The sob stopped Dean dead, who had already opened his mouth to make another stupid pun, “Sammy.”

Why did this always happen to them? Why couldn't they catch a break, just once, be both fine, be together again?

“Sammy, don't-” Dean seemed stricken and what did that even mean, what was a demon feeling, how could it be more than an echo. Why wasn't Dean just pretending to feel like any soulless thing?

Was he?

Could Sam even tell anymore, after everything...

“Hey, this is not the end of the world,” Dean said in a voice that told him to get his shit together, because he didn't want to comfort Sam, he would, but he didn't want to.

There, when this familiar expression crept over Dean's face, Sam knew, it wasn't fake, because Dean had always been bad at pretending to be annoyed about his little brother's emotional outbursts. This painted on annoyance covered blotchy how useless Dean felt in the face of hurt he brought on.

“I am still me,” he said. Dean shifted. Like he searched for a way to proof it. “I am, it's not the same as with other demons. I mean I don't even stink.”

Now Sam had to laugh.

As terrible as it was what Dean had become, he was here.

“No, not more than usual,” Sam agreed.

“So sulfur is a hell thing, huh?” Dean theorized. Like they had a perfectly normal topic, _How was the weather? Rainy, it's a Seattle thing._

As Sam had a total of two minutes to come to terms that his brother was a demon, he thought of the next logical thing, “I will cure you.”

“No.”

“Dean-”

“No, we can't,” Dean protested louder, shaking head and angry roll of shoulders. “I still carry the mark, fifty-fifty chance I drop dead if you cure me. Best case I stay on the merry-go-round, die again, slowly and painfully and end up demon again. No thanks!”

“We at least have to try.” Who knew if this civilized-demon-thing would be stable, young demons usually-

Dean stared holes into him.

“You really would just try,” Dean stated, nostrils flaring, skin tight anger barely held back. “You would just go ahead and cure me, fuck the consequences that has for me.”

Sam carefully shook his head. “No, Dean, but you can't stay like this-”

Dean was in his face, their chests touched and Sam could feel the wrath vibrating through Dean's body, he turned away, but Dean mirrored the motion, following him. “Drinking your feelings, Sammy?” he said smelling the alcohol on his breath, “Why, I thought it doesn't matter to you if I live or die?”

“Dean. Calm down. No one is forcing you. We are just talking. I wouldn't take any risks.” But of course he would do anything it took to make sure Dean didn't stay his own worst nightmare, “We wont do anything before we know exactly what we are doing...”

Dean wasn't listening to him anymore. He had become calm. A bad calm. When Sam's words trailed off, Dean gave silence a second before he said, “You would.”

“Would what?”

Dean leaned back, chin up, gnawing away his anger before he spoke up again, “You would force this on me. Push come shove you will risk my life.”

Dean had done the same thing for him, giving him his soul back and maybe that thought had shown or it was just the second Sam was short a reply, because when he answered, “It's not-”

Dean exploded. Eyes flipping black, he threw him against the near wall so hard Sam's bones resonated with the impact, back muscles going from pain to numb instantly. Finding breath again a distracting struggle, Sam didn't notice straight off, Dean wasn't pushing just physically.

His brother seemed surprised himself, fists still holding on, his whole body behind the shove, when his sheer will alone would have been enough to keep Sam in place.

It was the familiar pressure, how demon telekinesis put on hold felt like, an unsettled moving pulse all over Sam's front, but for some strange reason always strongest at his palms and the soles of his feet, pushing.

Dean breathed heavily, but tried to get it under control.

And after a minute, Sam had counted the breaths ticking it away, Dean's eyes cleared and he had let go of Sam, physically.

Only physically.

“Do you see,” Sam dared to speak up, “That you're not yourself right now?” he kept talking because it didn't seem to rile Dean up again, if anything he looked like he tried to figure something out, “You don't even have the blade on you and you are out of control.”

Dean looked up.

“What?” Sam asked.

As an answer, Dean brought his arm to his back and drew the blade. Just holding it by his side, not threatening, just an answer.

Sam would have had to lie, to say he was not afraid. To say he was sure Dean would not use this on him.

“I can handle it.”

That Dean actually believed that, didn't do anything to put Sam at ease. Dean had used the blade before, smiling through it, calmly repeating he had everything under control.

Dean had to have seen how uneasy the blade made Sam feel, because he stepped back, put it down at the nearest table, with the soft noise of fossilized bone on old wood.

“It's okay, Sammy,” Dean pacified him further.

Sam didn't call him on it, how anything could be okay, when Dean still held him pressed against the wall, with his mind alone. Sam wasn't sure Dean knew how to let go, not that it mattered, because consciously or subconsciously intended, Dean had him trapped.

“I am not Cain,” Dean said, coming close again, desperate to be understood, “I could never give up on you.”

“I know Dean. But I don't want you to give up on yourself.”

Wrinkled brow, his brother shook his head about Sam's statement. “Why do you think you got it all figured out?” Dean wanted to know, “Why can't you believe me I am alright?”

Sam strained visually against the telekinetic hold. “Maybe because you just attacked me, like a minute ago?”

Dean didn't understand. He shrugged, “So?”

“I know you have been angry at me for some time now, but you never-”

“Punched you?” Dean interrupted, “Which I didn't by the way, I just shoved you.”

No. Dean was still doing it. But Sam didn't say that. If Dean didn't let him up or even tried to by now, he wouldn't just because Sam asked for it. He could easily make things worse, struggling too hard.

“I am not saying we don't have a domestic violence problem,” Dean joked about it, “But making each other angry to the point where we start swinging is hardly a recent thing – hell, you were a toddler first time you punched my face for teasing you.”

Dean was right, Sam wouldn't make a point saying Dean turned violent, on their level shoving and pushing didn't even register. So he had to make a point with something else, “Then what else do you feel?”

Dean rolled his eyes, not answering.

“Because I know you feel different, I can tell.” Eyes shut, Sam would have been able to tell Dean was different and not only because he smelled it. “I know what it's like, to be high on demon blood, to feel like that and I get you don't want it to end.”

Dean listened, but he didn't take him serious. He chuckled. “I doubt a mouthful of demon blood can make one feel as free as I feel right now,” Dean said and with a smile added, “But maybe you want a taste.”

A chill settled in Sam's gut. “Please tell me you're kidding.”

“Not of my blood,” Dean said. “You have no idea, Sammy. What's it like in here. I hear the voice of rage and ruin, I can feel it singing, cutting, clean, simple, calm. I don't think you ever felt like that. Even when you were pumped up on demon blood...I remember, you were buzzing with power; but no rest, no peace.

Do you wanna know what that feels like?”

Dean didn't just ask hypothetically.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked as Dean reached out. Dean didn't pause, didn't answer, just opened the top buttons of Sam's shirt and tugged the fabric away.

Sam knew what Dean was doing, he wasn't stupid, he knew where this was heading, but even after Dean brought out the switch blade and cut the tiniest nick into the tattoo, he still couldn't believe it. His brother couldn't actually prepare to possess him.

“Relax, it's not going to hurt,” Dean promised, not mocking, really concerned about the struggle Sam put up, fighting empty air.

Sam didn't say anything, he was too busy grinding his teeth together and keeping his mouth shut, because even though he still couldn't believe it, he would not make it easy for Dean.

“Don't panic.” Dean shook his head. “I am not going to possess you.”

What else then?

“Just give you a taste of what it's like,” Dean answered the unspoken question. “Can't think of a better way to prove it's still me.”

Dean didn't even realize what perversion he just stated.

“Sammy please don't fight me.” He really meant it like it sounded, like a plea. “I am not trying to hurt you,” Dean promised again. “I just want you to understand. Everything 's fine. Just open up.”

Sam gagged on the memory the tone and the words triggered: His brother asking him to swallow medicine, taking care of him, worrying over him.

“Don't be silly, don't make me force you.” The tone had stayed gentle.

Which was worse for Sam.

“Fine.” Dean lost his patience and took Sam's jaw in a hard grip and leaned in. Their mouths less than an inch apart, Sam didn't see much but Dean's eyes big and concerned and only in outlines how he parted his lips and wisps of smoke snaked out.

Sam knew it was useless to hold his breath, but did it anyhow. The smoke tickled his nostrils, but waited.

Dean's fingers dug more brutally into Sam's face, forcing his jaw apart, rending the soft insides of his cheeks at his own teeth. Like nothingness the smoke slipped between his lips, teeth and took control.

Sam didn't feel possessed, just the connection between his will and his facial muscles broke. His body relaxed.

The smoke curled around his tongue in a life scarring manner. It didn't stink of sulfur, just like Dean didn't stink as the demons hardened in hell did.

It was warm and tasted of clean bone char, rasped along the insides of Sam's mouth down his throat, like something going from solid to liquid to solid and back again frequently. Pulsing, widening, and Sam knew in his mind he should have gagged on it, but his throat wouldn't. His mental horror existed completely set apart from his body's sensations and they grew stronger than reason, than cognitive understanding of his situation.

He felt Dean let go of his face and lean softly into him.

He felt the smoke spreading, penetrating his flesh, soaking into it.

He felt his brother resting his head on his shoulder, a loose embrace, fingers tickling his arm. He felt the smoke, Dean travel through his veins, pool in his eyes, filling up his vision, dark, comforting, safe. It was bliss. Freedom.

Sam never wanted it to end.

Till Dean broke their embrace, leaned back, pulled the smoke with him out of Sam and his eyes, his lungs and Sam gasped for air.

Then he became aware what Dean just had done to him. “Get off me you freak!” he gasped with his second breath.

Dean huffed annoyed, more sullen than angry and backed off just so far they didn't touch anymore, like he didn't want to feel Sam struggle against the fucking inescapable hold he had on him!

“Maybe you're not doing calm.” Dean acted resigned. “Peace is not for everyone.”

“Let – me – go!” Sam was straining his muscles so hard he wouldn't have been surprised to feel them rip.

“You always said you wanted Safe, Normal...”

That made Sam pause for a second, because What the fuck? What Dean just did equaled Safe and Normal for him now?

“I guessed that was just bullshit,” Dean added, “Saying one thing meaning the other. A liar and a murderer from the beginning. With the right excuse you drink the blood of the innocent. You're the freak,” his brother ground out, teeth bared and red with his own blood. “You're the monster.” Red, fresh blood trickled from the corners of Dean's mouth and Sam forgot to struggle.

Using Sam's surprise Dean pressed their lips together.

The quick wet press of flesh didn't force the blood on Sam, but it coated his skin, his lips and Dean watched him, mesmerized like a mirrored image of his own blood smeared face.

The smell of ozone and the tight feeling of drying blood, filled up his senses and his heartbeat pounded in his ears, testing his resolve, because it was demon blood, because it was Dean's blood, but the call of power wasn't anywhere near as strong as shared memories and this, what Dean just did to him remembered Sam strongly of the most disgusting thing Dean ever did when they were little, how he held him down and spit on him.

Through all this, ever present penetrated Sam the feeling of being held down and made him feel like a child again.

Made him go back to the only times he really hated Dean when they were little, when Dean held him down and laughed at his face, effortless. So effortless Dean didn't even feel his struggle, didn't know his desperation, mocked his anger and didn't understand why he made Sam cry. He usually hadn't done anything to him, not hurt him, not humiliated him(safe for the one time with the spit), not even tickled him, just held him down and showed him exactly how helpless he was, how weak, how pathetic, how vulnerable because it was Dean, who was the only thing protecting him. And Sam, eight years old had hated him for it, for the fact, that Dean could do anything to him and made a point about it by pushing him down. Overpowering him. Touching him. Not stopping till Sam cried.

It had taken years and a different experience to learn it's name: Rape. And no matter how old he grew, he never felt anything but assaulted whenever Dean didn't let him up and even when it was only for a second.

Dean had never understood he had gone too far then. Dean could never know, Sam had sworn to himself.

“All this time, Sammy?” Dean said. His smile had died.

Sam didn't understand.

Dean rubbed over his chin, getting rid of the irritating feeling of drying blood, that Sam had to endure because he couldn't move even his little finger.

Dean seemed bitter. It was a forlorn expression him, now even more so as the weight had been stripped away from him and a good ten years of age seemingly so too. “You never wanted me close.”

For a dreadful second Sam thought, Dean had read his thoughts, but no, he was just rambling, he wasn't even thinking clear himself, how would he figure out how to read Sam's mind.

“You're not my brother.”

“No?”

“No. Dean would be horrified, you're not him.”

The demon chuckled. “Did'ya never consider your feeling could be dead on? That I got off on showing you your place?”

And like a verification of what he was unable to deny now, Sam tasted ash in mouth. Dean wasn't just guessing his mood, he knew what he made Sam feel like. He sat tightly inside his flesh.

“I don't think you get it,” Dean said, eyebrows high and repeated, “I got off on it.”

“I heard you.”

“No,” Dean shook his head, “You heard that I like to push you down. You're thinking into the wrong direction Sam.

Less 50 Shades of Grey, more Spiel Mit Mir.”

Sam would have liked to pretend he didn't get that reference, but it wasn't Dean who had Rammstein on his iPod.

His brother was only trying to get a rise out of him. What had he expected? Dean turning into a demon, what else could he do but push every button just for fun.

Sam steeled himself not to react, not even to acknowledge how Dean stroked the back of his hand down Sam's front. Laid a warm hand on his belly and stopped, started, stopped, fingers on the edge to his waistband like an arranged barrier.

Dean didn't go farther and after fifteen heartbeats of pause Sam lost his nerve, because if Dean tried to get a rise out of him - Why did he look afraid then? Why did he stop like he waited for permission. Like tried to work up a courage. If this was some awful joke or payback or any mind-game then why did Dean seem more vulnerable and human and more like his brother than the thing that had walked towards him and hugged him and smelled wrong?

“You can't mean this,” Sam made it sound extra harsh, to halt the trembling hand.

Head down, clearly hiding his shame, Dean did not stop, but diverted the move he put on Sam and continued to unbutton his shirt, clinical, careful, nervous.

He swallowed, before he spoke to Sam without looking at him, “Do you remember, you asked me once, you said:

_There's gotta be something you want for yourself?_

Well, Sammy, this is it. You.

You're what I want.”

Sam felt Dean's calloused hands press into his skin, soft yet firm, not a tickle, familiar. It didn't even feel wrong and even though Dean usually didn't stroke Sam's naked back in full frontal close embrace, it were his brothers hands and it was like a thousand other times and almost made him forget he was held in place and couldn't stop Dean. Blunt nails raked salving over his spine and Dean's voice hit an especially low pitch, “I can make you feel good.” Part promise, part claim. “I got the black belt in making people feel good. This is the one thing I did more research about than you.”

Sam knew it was true and if he had been any girl Dean tried to woo, the next move would have sure been sexy. But to Sam, the brush of lips and scratch of stubble to the most tender part of his neck, felt beyond repulsive. He would've gone so far to say his muscle memory would forever remember and in future shy away from anyone kissing his neck.

And Dean wouldn't stop- Sam gasped his disgust from the breath he held and broke, “Alright, you wanted to freak me out, I am freaked. You can stop now!”

Dean faced him, hurt. Silent.

His eyes filled, first with anger, then with more hurt and last-it looked first like tears. But it wasn't tears.

“You don't take me serious.” Even black-eyed Dean manged to look heartbroken, hurt beyond words. “Why should you – you never have. I was always a means to an end for you, for Dad. A thing, not a person,”, Dean spit his words and ripped open the fly of Sam's jeans. “You maybe asked,”

“Dea-”

“ **But** you didn't care about my answer. I told you, I wanted you. You just didn't listen.” Nails caught painfully where Dean had nicked his skin to break the tattoo. When Dean scratched over it a second time Sam realized it hadn't been an accident. “You left. Every time you get the chance you do the one thing I ask you not to do to me.” The cut started to bleed, Sam's chest felt on fire. “Roles reversed, you wouldn't even leave me a note. You would ditch me for hookers and hunting. Congratulations, without even trying you turned out just like Dad,” saying that, he shoved his hand in Sam's open fly and the first rub through his underwear felt like the cotton scraped off the skin from his dick.

At least Dean had dropped the disturbing tenderness. From frying pan to fire, Sam thought as his brother dipped his head down and licked the blood off his chest. Up to when rude tongue met cut, broken flesh, there Dean started to suck.

The sensation was so disgusting, Sam welcomed the pain when his brother bit down hard, before he nibbled the wound more lovingly.

Dean was palming Sam's dick in a steady rhythm that did absolutely nothing for him and was secondary to the glide of Dean's wet, lush lips soothing the fresh wound.

It was high time to be smart about this. Because Sam didn't want to know what Dean would do next time he made him angry.

“I'm sorry.”

Like yanking the invisible chain, his tone brought along Dean's attention.

Sam tried not to look or think about how obscene Dean's lips looked right now.

“It's not your fault,” all anger drained out of Dean, or something, whatever it was that brought the black on, “You never had a chance at being good.”

It hurt to hear Dean say something like that, how his brother blinked away blackness didn't change that.

“But we-” speaking, Dean's breath whispered over Sam's lips and he realized that Dean didn't breathe, not all the time, like he forgot. “-we can be good for each other.”

The kiss laid light and brief on Sam's lips and was made to stay long after his brother dipped his head back and studied his reaction.

Dean didn't get angry. The pain twisting his features was too old for that, ancient. And Sam wasn't even sure it had anything to do with how Dean felt for him. Or how he didn't return those feelings.

Dean smiled, licked his thumb and cleaned his own dried blood from Sam's chin. His grip on Sam's dick had loosened.

“When we learned 'bout demon blood, I wondered,” Dean said, “Why kissing your booboos and licking away your blood when we were little, never did anything to me. Why this darkness wasn't in me too. I just didn't feel it. I didn't know better, I thought I was good.” He grinned acidly. “-what a joke.”

Compartmentalization had kicked in full for Sam, because he could separate himself from being molested by his brother and do what he should have done from the start.

“Please Dean, let me move,” his plea had to stay close to what he really wanted most, or Dean would know he was played, he knew him too well. “Just let me move. I wont do anything stupid.”

Dean didn't believe him. Fair enough, Sam wouldn't have believed it either.

“You wouldn't do this to me,” he tried a different approach.

Dean swallowed hard. Shame, fresh, mixing with old guilt. His brother stopped manipulating his dick.

Instinct forbade Sam to relax. Dean hadn't stopped stroking him because he had asked, but because of what he had said.

“Actually,” Dean visibly forced himself to meet Sam's eyes. “I did. I did touch you. Once,” his voice wasn't more than a whisper. “I was drunk and you were asleep and so, so fucking beautiful. You woke up, but not fully, because you knew it was just me, you went back to sleep while I jerked off with my hand on your thigh and-”

“Shut up!” He didn't believe him. Dean lied, for whatever reason, Dean lied, but he wouldn't listen to a demon ruining the memory he had of his brother.

“I was always sure you knew,” Dean said. “I thought that was why you left and never called. All those years- you didn't know.”

Oh Sam knew, he had known for a long time, years before Stanford, that Dean touched him when he thought he was asleep, fleeting, innocent touches, lingering, but never, never this- “I don't believe you. I know you better than anyone and I would know-”

“No you wouldn't,” Dean interrupted him resigned. “It didn't start out that sick and twisted. It happened so gradually not even I knew. I just knew I wanted you close. And at some point there is just no getting closer but skin on skin. And when I wanted more than that, not even I could have pretended it was a brotherly thing.

That night was the ultimate wake-up call. Hadn't I molested you, I would have probably seduced you, telling myself through the whole thing it was alright, because I love you.”

Pushing aside that he had nothing but denial to hold against what his brother confessed to him, Sam argued, “I believe you, that you love me too much. But I will never believe that you want to take what you want when you know it will hurt me.”

Dean seemed to think about it, but in the end shook his head, “Do you really think I don't know how pathetic I've become?

It wasn't supposed to be like that. Once upon a time it was beautiful, then sad,” he stroked Sam's hair from his face, “Then sadder.”

Dean let his arm fall to his side again. “And at last it has become almost funny, how much I still care for nothing else but you, when you care nothing at all.”

He grinned bitter and painful.

Sam's stomach knotted in dread guessing he pushed Dean to a point again, where he would lash out. He tried to think of something, anything, but to deny what wasn't so far off the truth would make Dean mad for certain. So he said nothing at all.

“Things have changed.” Dean flashed his eyes to black and back on purpose. “Now I got something you want.”

It wasn't right. Sam had always wanted Dean around, maybe not as close, but he had always needed him. That was why he had fallen for demon blood in the first place, because it filled any void, for a time.

He shook his head.

“You got something to say, Sammy?”

“Do you think getting me hooked on demon blood is going to change anything?”

“Naw,” Dean answered, nodding, “It's going to change everything. It already has.

For me.

I get it now, you manage be as high as a kite and a stick in the mud at the same time. But me? I am going to enjoy this.

Your relief is of the temporary kind. And as the good brother I am, I am going to give it to you as often as I can.”

Sam truly believed he wouldn't drink Dean's blood, believed Dean would have to force him.

While he still felt disgusted and focused, when Dean carded his fingers through his hair and conveyed in secret whispers, how he never hated Sam's floppy hair, only ever hated the fact he wasn't allowed to touch it whenever he felt like it -which was all the time. Dean became very suggestive with why the length of his hair and the good grip it gave him was one more thing to love.

Before Sam could tell him to shut up, Dean had stretched his arm towards the table and didn't move the last few inches, but the blade met him sure. His fingers curled around it like they touched something alive.

Dean cut himself, a deep gaping gash on his forearm and a door fell shut inside Sam's brain.

His mouth was half open when Dean pressed his arm against it.

And fully open to catch all blood, cover all flesh, a second later.

All thoughts gone for the moment of the first mouthful.

Licking into the wound, chasing the flow, thoughts rose up as a side dish and he knew why Dean had been so sure. He had been tricked: The first trickle of blood, right under his nose, drying up, denied a taste, getting comfortable in his subliminal perception, like the craving belonged there. Then there was the factor of being held, of feeling helpless that made him reach for power, against better judgment.

But the strongest factor was Dean. A Dean that sported black eyes, had molested him, forced himself inside him as corporal as demon smoke got and still, it was Dean. Sam lacked all self-control when his brother was there to catch him. His trust hadn't gotten the message yet, his love hadn't been dimmed by disgust and thinking all this, knowing why and how helped none at all because he had already drunken his fill and Dean pulled his arm away from him, meshing their mouths together.

It felt so good, so close, so free, he didn't care, not now and giving into Dean was easy, essential, because Sam had everything to give right now and he kissed back with everything he got. He was rock hard in Dean's hand, and when did that happen? He didn't care, he was burning up inside and Dean was so kind to push his underwear further down and rut against him, skin against skin, jerking their dicks together, snaked as tight together as their tongues.

He came over Dean's hand and dick, Dean groaning into his neck and Sam crashed hard.

He was shaking so badly, he let Dean tuck him away and sneak another kiss before he pulled himself together enough to turn his head away.

Instantly he felt the telekinetic hold reach for him, grasp every loose end and tie the noose around his neck into choking tightness.

Dean helped himself with brute force and fisted his hands both in Sam's hair tugging him down, pressing their mouths together again.

Sam heard a cry break from his own lips as the smoke entered in again, but this time it was different.

He pushed back with his powers, and Dean wrapped himself around these powers, nestling into their embrace, like the smoke fed on them.

It had to be that his powers and the smoke heated each other up, because with every push of his, his throat burned hotter, till it became piercing white hot pain and he felt Dean revel in it like basking in the glow of late summer sunlight, something just right, just enough, something gentle compared to what burned so direly that it let up no light.

Through the smoke, now that he touched it, he became aware of all the darkness Dean always hid from him and grief settled in it's old place for all the times he failed his brother, for all the missed chances to reach out, because here, in Dean's own personal hell, had grown something hungry and it was eating his brother alive.

A violent wish hit Sam and the need to rip this monster out of his brother, put himself between it and Dean...a fantasy, because the smoke strangled him as soon as the thought formed and left him with sputtering breaths and clear vision, with Dean close and far from being safe.

Years ago he had learned, that reading people's expressions was harder when their faces were too close, close enough to kiss, the only exception was his brother, yet to this day Sam had never reflected on that notion.

Dean was smiling, his acquired smile that wouldn't reach his eyes and denied all kindness. “All I've ever been doing was turning myself into a weapon, into something to protect you.

I am done with that. You're mine and I am going to ruin you,” Dean nuzzled Sam's ear and added a hissed promise, “I will wreck you.”

He dipped his head back and let all the hold go.

All Sam felt was the shared cooling air between them, they were not even touching, but his heart wouldn't stop flapping like a hysteric bird caught in an unfamiliar cage, wings flailing and breaking.

He had nothing on Dean, even giving in to the most corrupted power he could use, Dean simply turned it against him. Like he always had, no matter how strong Sam grew, how much taller, how much heavier, how much faster, when Dean tried, he always came out on top, like it was their own brand of gravity.

“That's alright, Sammy, just give in,” Dean purred.

“Thanks, but I rather die on my feet than to go on my knees for you.”

Dean reached out and Sam pulled himself together not to flinch. Dean touched his fingertips to Sam's hair, like he indulged in imagining Sam on his knees.

“You would rather die, Sammy? Where do you think I am going to drag your soul after I pushed my knife into you?”

He wouldn't do it. As long as there was something left of Dean, he wouldn't kill him.

“Awhh,” Dean mocked, “You're so sweet, you think I can't do it.” His voice dropped to a somber calm, “I can do anything to you.”

But he wouldn't. Dean loved him. Demons were able to overcome what they were.

“This is almost too easy,” Dean mused, “I mean I was expecting you wouldn't need more grooming than a crack whore – but this, this is beautiful. You really wanna cure me with love?”

Dean was reading his thoughts.

“Do you have any idea how vulnerable your faith in my love for you, makes you?” a pitiful head shake accompanied the question.

Demons lied. Demons said anything to fuck with people's minds. He had hurt Dean and Dean would say anything to hurt back. Sam took a deep breath and felt the air thicken in his throat, like it had to pass through something, like Dean had never left.

“You're no harder to seduce than any other little girl who wants to believe in true love.”

Dean took a step back, grinning like he too could feel the pull the distance created, like he enjoyed the physical ache the leftover smoke gave Sam.

“Not worth the effort,” Dean said, like to himself. “Come find me when you're desperate enough to fuck me straight or cuddle me soft.” He turned and paused mid-step, his tongue touching his incisors with a thought on the tip of it, “But finger yourself open before you crawl into my bed. That way you can pretend I wouldn't have fucked you dry.”

Dean walked away.

The echo of every sauntering step resounded in the hardening beat of Sam's heart. It cramped till he was afraid it would stop when the steps would fall on silence.

 

End


End file.
